When I was in my 20s, I had a very Chicago suburban roommate who invited me to join her family for their big Easter brunch. The kind of cultural family affair that is an honor to be invited, and reputedly delicious. I accepted the offer initially, but instead of going, I opted to be on a last-minute overnight bus to St. Paul, MN to see my ex-girlfriend play a trumpet solo in a church for Easter. I had left a note for my roommate, not with an apology, but with an excuse of a grand romantic overture perfect for a Hollywood movie.

My roommate was pissed when I got back - I no-showed the brunch, insulting her and her family. And for what? In service of a woman who, in her opinion, was shitty to me, and I needed to just let go. My relationship with that girlfriend would stumble to and fro for another few months, until incineration around the time I got accepted into grad school later that summer.

I missed seeing Peaches live this past weekend. I had tried to catch the live event of her at KEXP, but she had to cancel due to weather. And it’s not that I couldn’t have bought a ticket to the show - I could have, and I even would have known people there. People I care about, and have known for decades.

I had already signed up for a volunteer shift for doing check-in at a local kink event for that evening. I had free admission with my shift, but was mostly just doing it for community building, not to play that evening. I had no reason I couldn’t cancel. Another volunteer would step up. No money would be lost on any side. I said to myself I’d maybe look to go to the concert after my shift, but I ended up chatting with a few people, and time got away from me as my social mask wore on. And it was nothing that couldn’t have happened at a future volunteer gig, at a future party.

I didn’t really understand what my roommate had been telling me when I returned that evening from Minnesota. I didn’t have the context of large multigenerational, loving, some-still-remember-the-Old-Country families with feasting traditions and sacred invites to break bread, because I hadn’t ever experienced that before (and wouldn’t, until I met Jon’s family.)

“You idiot,” I translate now, to my past self, “she was telling you that she was hurt, because the people who loved you, and would feed you on a holy day, were unceremoniously dumped in favor of someone who played with your heart like a cat with a mouse. Worse, your ex didn’t even care you were there.”

I realize I’ve now told the same story twice. But two decades apart, I understand it now in a way I don’t think I could before. I’m having to learn who I am without Jon, and finding the line between before and after him is part of it. Figuring out a way to deal with all the desires that come with being me — staggeringly consistent even into middle age, once my over-amped adrenals start to calm.

Not to ramble, but a friend recently spoke of my edges, called me an “urban goth” which, while actually true, is not something I think about being visible. But Jon always told me I was bad at hiding. And I’m bad at lying. And even a picture a friend took of me last weekend which made me fill with self-loathing made people come at me with love.

And I worried that in the world of friends and dating that maybe I was lonely because I was too judgy or harsh, willing to entertain cutting people off or out when someone else might choose otherwise.

I came to realize, though, that I’m a relationship veteran. I’ve got 20 years experience in a successful, loving relationship, shared between stubborn people, and even better, stubborn kids. We went through so much together. The week Jon was dying, he said to me, “I’m totally dependent on you now,” his eyes welled with tears, and said, “I love you forever.”

Quite the resume.

The people who love me are already here. The people who love me are here, in all their different ways. They see me when I smile my full smile. They see the thin-lipped, dimpled smile that I’ve tried to mask so many times in pictures. They see the curves I can’t hide. The emotions I can’t mask. They love me when I’m annoying. I’m sure some of them have even had crushes on me at some point (or do now).

Yes, and life is also like a rule of improv comedy, where if you try to make it funny, it won’t be. Who I am is who I am and might as well just cut to the truth and be my whole messy self, because it will ward people who don’t want this ride, and beckon those who do.

The season is changing, and so am I - coming into myself. I’ve been going to yoga almost weekly at a neighborhood studio, and I’ve gotten to know the owner a bit. When I told her why I was missing class (and the Vernal Equinox class even!) this weekend, we had such a lovely, heartfelt talk where I realized that my people will find me. I will find my people.

I have spent too long in my life feeling like a failure, my standards were inexplicably high, my boundaries being too conservative (and feeling pressured to be more “open minded” — these are personal boundaries, not a debate!). But what if I know who I am? What if I know what I want? What if I also know what I want doesn’t have to reside in a single place, a single person, a single moment in time? What if that means I can be uncompromising, because why should I compromise?

I shed my self-loathing for the spring. I step across the threshold as Persephone. I gather with friends to fulfill my promise, to plant a tree that Jon’s soil will nourish. I will toast to me, to them. I will try to grow my own roots here to seek the continued nourishment of my community, who are there to call on when I sink into my quiet heart.